The Mystery of Orcival eBook

If there had been no crime, at least something extraordinary
had taken place at the chateau; the impassible justice
might have been convinced of it, as soon as he had
stepped into the vestibule. The glass door leading
to the garden was wide open, and three of the panes
were shattered into a thousand pieces. The carpeting
of waxed canvas between the doors had been torn up,
and on the white marble slabs large drops of blood
were visible. At the foot of the staircase was
a stain larger than the rest, and upon the lowest
step a splash hideous to behold.

Unfitted for such spectacles, or for the mission he
had now to perform, M. Courtois became faint.
Luckily, he borrowed from the idea of his official
importance, an energy foreign to his character.
The more difficult the preliminary examination of this
affair seemed, the more determined he was to carry
it on with dignity.

“Conduct us to the place where you saw the body,”
said he to Bertaud. But Papa Plantat intervened.

“It would be wiser, I think,” he objected,
“and more methodical, to begin by going through
the house.”

“Perhaps—­yes—­true, that’s
my own view,” said the mayor, grasping at the
other’s counsel, as a drowning man clings to
a plank. And he made all retire excepting the
brigadier and the valet de chambre, the latter remaining
to serve as guide. “Gendarmes,” cried
he to the men guarding the gate, “see to it
that no one goes out; prevent anybody from entering
the house, and above all, let no one go into the garden.”

Then they ascended the staircase. Drops of blood
were sprinkled all along the stairs. There was
also blood on the baluster, and M. Courtois perceived,
with horror, that his hands were stained.

When they had reached the first landing-stage, the
mayor said to the valet de chambre:

“Tell me, my friend, did your master and mistress
occupy the same chamber?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where is their chamber?”

“There, sir.”

As he spoke, the valet de chambre staggered back terrified,
and pointed to a door, the upper panel of which betrayed
the imprint of a bloody hand. Drops of perspiration
overspread the poor mayor’s forehead he too
was terrified, and could hardly keep on his feet.
Alas, authority brings with it terrible obligations!
The brigadier, an old soldier of the Crimea, visibly
moved, hesitated.

M. Plantat alone, as tranquil as if he were in his
garden, retained his coolness, and looked around upon
the others.

“We must decide,” said he.

He entered the room; the rest followed.

There was nothing unusual in the apartment; it was
a boudoir hung in blue satin, furnished with a couch
and four arm-chairs, covered also with blue satin.
One of the chairs was overturned.

They passed on to the bed-chamber.

A frightful disorder appeared in this room.
There was not an article of furniture, not an ornament,
which did not betray that a terrible, enraged and
merciless struggle had taken place between the assassins
and their victims. In the middle of the chamber
a small table was overturned, and all about it were
scattered lumps of sugar, vermilion cups, and pieces
of porcelain.